


Concrete Beneath My Feet

by larchanddragonheartstring (YewStrike)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YewStrike/pseuds/larchanddragonheartstring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night Vale considers her new Scientist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concrete Beneath My Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WTNV secret santa 2014 for arbeekeypok on tumblr, where I am larchanddragonheartstring, I just never posted it here until now. (I'd love feedback, I haven't actually finished many fics before)

When he arrived, everyone stopped talking. 

~

He had called the meeting, and they all came more from curiosity about him than about whatever it was he had to say. Strangers, after all, are something of a rarity in Night Vale. Or at least, the strange ones are. Most of the newcomers, the foundling children of the little burg, slip right in, as if they had never not been there. The square filled, citizen after citizen ghosting their way to stand in rows, a low humming filling the air as they chatted amongst themselves.

“A scientist-“  
“-why-“  
“-at Big Rico’s today, and-“  
“Goddamn it, Nina, you know-“  
“-but did you hear-“  
“Hey, how-“

The humming built, as is custom at such informal gatherings, until it began to be underscored by whining at various pitches, and stabilized somewhat.

“-the figures-“  
“-and then he-“

The breeze was weak, as usual, and a buzzard-like creature circled lazily overhead. It screeched, twice, and the people below screeched back in unison before continuing their conversations.

“Hush, child!”  
“-so practice is at four?“  
“I just can’t-“

~

When he arrived, everyone stopped talking. He turned the corner and stopped short at the sight of the crowd, eyes widening, footsteps stuttering to a halt. The humming stopped instantly. The buzzard—or whatever it was—gave a final shriek, echoed by the assembled populace below, before dissolving into a red light, which hovered, stationary, overhead. Heads turned in eerie unison to focus on the scientist. All was utterly silent.

He coughed, splintering the hush, and cautiously made his way to the steps at the edge of the square. From the top, he surveyed his audience.

Directly in the center of the crowd stood the Voice. The scientist didn’t know that, of course, but everyone else did. The Voice looked at the scientist, and the crowd looked at the Voice, and the scientist looked at the crowd. And the Voice fell in love instantly.

They waited very quietly, the whole crowd, watching their Voice watch the scientist. Waiting. Waiting. Maybe for a flash of light, a screech, a shift in the desert. But it didn’t come. The scientist was, after all, not of Night Vale. And so much as Night Vale adopts her foundlings, he was no such child just yet. He was still Strange. And the citizens watched their Voice as he fell in love, and Night Vale was silent. But then, her Voice deserved so much, after all. She supposed this new little one could have a chance.

The breeze shifted, just a bit, carrying with it the scent of blood and flint and sage, and the citizens relaxed. Just a bit. Night Vale approved.

You see, Night Vale loves her children so very much, and her Voice deserves all that she can give him. But the trouble is that the essence of Night Vale is very like the essence of the desert: vast and empty and hot and more cruel than kind, however much she may wish this wasn’t the case. Mercy is so rarely in her nature. So maybe her voice could use this strange man. This stranger, more Strange than most, who’s still learning what void really looks like.


End file.
